


Things We Lost In The Fire

by JollyTimeTraveler



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyTimeTraveler/pseuds/JollyTimeTraveler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <i>Flames – they licked the walls</i>
    <br/>
    <i>Tenderly they turned to dust all that I adore</i>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>They thought they died in a barricade. Thought they made it to heaven. Turns out, they weren't finished.
            </blockquote>





	1. Scribbles and Doodles

_"Do you permit it?"_

_Those were the last words he heard. The last thing he felt was the white hot agony of bullets piercing him, the wall hitting his back, a tight grip on his hand pulling at his shoulder._

Enjolras woke up with a gasp, sitting bolt upright. His face was covered in sweat, his curly blonde hair sticking to his cheek. He ran his fingers through it, trying to get his breath back. It felt unbearably hot and he kicked off his blankets, trying to remember the dream. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn't quite get a hold of it. It slipped through his mind, until there was nothing left but a vague ache in his chest and an emptiness to his hand. Staring at his palm, he flexed it until the feeling went away. For some reason he had felt like he'd had the dream before, but couldn't remember it enough to know for sure. Well, he wasn't going to be getting any more sleep so he got up, threw on a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt and put his hair up. It was way too early for work and he didn't have class today, but he didn't want to stay in his room. Instead, he went to the kitchen to get some coffee. His roommate was a heavy sleeper, absolutely nothing woke him up. And lord knows Enjolras had tried. He'd made it through three cups of coffee before he decided to try and make himself look at least a little more presentable. And even then he stood by the counter for another few cups of coffee, then set the mug down and went to the bathroom to shower.

Standing under the hot water and letting it run down his face, he again tried to recall the dream. He wanted to remember, but there was nothing that would come to mind so he gave up. Maybe work would take his mind off it. He had a job as a barista at a local cafe. Nothing huge or special, just making coffee for haggard people looking for a pick-me-up and people-watching during slow hours. It seemed that a lot of college students liked to hang around the cafe to study or just chat. Enjolras wasn't a fan but he certainly wasn't going to say anything. He had long learned to keep his opinion to himself. The last time he'd spoken his mind, he'd been given a sound beating from a gang and promptly arrested for 'disturbing the peace'. He shut the water off and got out, scrubbing his head with a towel to get some water off. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of himself through in the mirror, steamed up with water vapor. As he looked, he fancied he saw himself wearing a red coat. Just for a moment he saw it, but blinked and it was gone. He shook his head, water droplets flying, and went to get dressed. He needed to get to work.

\------

Grantaire didn't want to get out of bed. It was too warm and comfortable. The only reason he ever got out of bed was when he couldn't stand the taste in his mouth anymore or he had a sudden epiphany and needed to draw it immediately. But today he was torn. He lay on his bed, pillow clamped tightly around his ears, staring at the easel across the room. It had a half-finished painting on it, a vague shape of a feminine face but a masculine jawline, curly blonde hair, and the beginnings of a slender neck and shoulders. For some reason, in the middle of the night red paint had been splattered across the canvas. The more he stared at it, the more it made him nervous. From here, sunlight barely forcing itself past his closed curtains and with no other light source in the room, it looked almost like bullet wounds. He could easily count six.

He threw his pillow at the easel, knocking it over.

\------

As per usual, the day was unbearably slow. He scribbled on the backs of receipts, not paying attention to what he was doodling or writing. He paused every now and again to get a customer a coffee. Every time he looked up at the clock, he inwardly groaned at how little time had passed. All he wanted was to go on break and maybe take a nap in the back room. Waking up so early wasn't agreeing with him. He perked up a bit when the door swung open. But it was only his roommate, dark curly hair held back by a rather ridiculous headband that had a lurid pink flower attached to it and soft brown eyes seemed to not quite focus on anything.

"What'll it be." Enjolras said in a bored voice, continuing to write absently on a receipt.

"Nothing." His roommate replied, leaning on the counter.

"R, please tell me you didn't come here just to visit." Enjolras said exasperatedly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Why else would I be here? I don't have the extra cash to buy your overly priced cappuccinos." Grantaire replied with a toothy grin. Enjolras rolled his blue eyes, preferring to write.

Grantaire leaned over to look at what he was writing, then reached over and snatched it from under his hands.

"Don't-what are you doing?" Enjolras said quickly, trying to reach over the counter and get the receipt back.

"Is this what you've been doing for the past five hours?!" Grantaire sounded incredulous as he read over the scribbles.

"Stop that. You'd do the same if you were stuck behind a counter all day." Enjolras snapped.

"At least I get paid to doodle." Grantaire said.

He was an artist, indeed paid to doodle. If what he did could be described as doodling. He had a penchant for drawing a certain blonde androgynous someone and was paid rather well for his paintings. At times he seemed almost obsessive with his art, locking himself in his room for extended periods of time and refusing any disturbance of any kind.

"Since when have you been a fan of writing about....monarchies and governments?" Grantaire asked, reading off the receipt. Enjolras snatched it back, crumpling it up and shoving it into his pocket.

"Since I started studying politics." He replied, crossing his arms.

"Which is boring beyond belief." Grantaire said, slouching against the counter.

"It is not boring." Enjolras was visibly put out by Grantaire's laid-back air. "Don't you have something better to do? Like drawing someone's spouse for their wedding anniversary or something?"

"Not yet." Grantaire replied, whistling absently and earning a few dirty looks from people trying to study. "Well, I guess I'll be off! It's time for a drink."

"It's not even four." Enjolras sighed.

"So? It's always time for a drink." Grantaire replied.

"Where do you go?" Enjolras asked.

"Why? Thinking of joining me?"

Enjolras glared at him. "No." He said flatly.

"Your loss." Grantaire said airily. "There's this old pub that I go to. It's called the Musain. It's been there forever."

Grantaire left after that.

Enjolras reached into his pocket and pulled out the now crumpled and creased receipt. He smoothed it out, glancing over what he'd written. Right at the top, though smudged from Grantaire's handling, was the word Musain. He folded the receipt neatly and put it back in his pocket, deciding to worry about it later.


	2. Stroke of Bad Luck

It was past midnight and the library was silent and, for the most part, empty except for a single form slumped over a pile of books on a table. A mop of short wavy brown hair was visible over the arms wrapped around his head. Joly had fallen asleep on his notes, exhausted beyond belief. He had a huge exam coming up and couldn't even imagine the humiliation of failing. So it had come to a sunny Tuesday, even though the exam was Friday, spent in the library studying. Studying late into the night, his cell phone turned off so no one could possibly bother him. He'd even chosen a spot in a far upper corner of the building where he was least likely to be disturbed. He was so quiet and inconspicuous that no one had even noticed he was there, not even the librarians when they locked up. 

He was fast asleep, glasses lying on the floor where they had slipped from his fingers. A few papers had been knocked off the table.

\------

It wasn't Bossuet's fault that he'd been locked into the library. He's gone to the bathroom and had managed to trip over the doorstop and knock himself out. Thankfully, no one ha thought to lock the door so when he woke up, with a raging headache and an impressive lump on his head, he was able to get out. The library was creepy at night. 

Checking his watch, Bossuet almost knocked himself into a bookshelf. It was already past midnight! He needed to get back to his dorm and finish his homework! Oh man he was in for it now. 

He was about to go sprinting out of the library when he thought he spotted someone through the bookshelves. He hesitated. Should he investigate? He really needed to do that homework, but what if there was a person there? It was late.

He edged through the bookshelves, uncomfortably aware of how silent it was, to find a young man soundly asleep. Bossuet took a moment to take in the scene. He couldn't see the guy's face, but he could tell that, underneath the tan knit sweater, he was a very skinny very pale very lanky guy. Bossuet waited a second to see if he would wake up, then very gently tapped him on the shoulder. The guy jumped awake almost immediately, startling Bossuet.

"Wha-What's goin' on?" Joly mumbled sleepily, hair rumpled and blue eyes blurry. He rubbed at them, trying to figure out why he was awake. Looking up, he saw a very brawny man standing in front of him. He had dark skin and almost no hair, it was extremely short. 

Bossuet blinked. 

"Do I.....Do I know you?" He said slowly. He swore he recognized Joly, like he'd seen a picture of him before.

"I don't think so but..." Joly replied, having the same thought. "I'm Joly, by the way."

"Err- Bossuet." Bossuet reached out and shook his hand. "I don't mean to be rude but why are you in a library in the middle of the night?" 

Joly hurriedly checked his watch.

"Oh crap! It's after midnight!" He exclaimed, beginning to gather up his books and papers and cram them into his backpack. "Where are my glasses." He mumbled, trying to find them.

Bossuet stepped forward to try and help look, but felt something under his show and found that he had stepped in then. Quickly, he lifted his foot and picked them up. One of the ear pieces was bent and he tried to straighten it.

"Sorry I-uh-stepped on them." He said sheepishly, handing them to the frantic looking Joly. He thanked Bossuet anyway, fixing the frame and putting the glasses in their case. He'd worry about it later. 

"I can have my roommate's friend fix them." Joly said as he zipped his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He looked exhausted but his eyes were clear. "What are you still doing here at midnight?" He asked Bossuet. "If you don't mind me asking."

"I slipped and passed out in the bathroom and got locked in." He mumbled sheepishly. 

"Guess you don't have the best of luck." Joly said with a smile as they walked down the stairs to the front door. Thankfully, the doors opened from the inside so they were able to get out. 

The night was a little chilly and Bossuet had, bad luck still plaguing him, forgotten his hat. Joly noticed and, without even pausing to think about it, reached into his bag and pulled out a knit hat and put it on Bossuet's head. 

"You-You don't need to give me this. I don't need it." Bossuet protested, looking a little shocked.

"It's fine. It's kind of cold. You can just give it back to me later." Joly replied quickly. "I live in Baker dorm over there." He pointed.

"I live in Greensboro." Bossuet pointed in the opposite direct.

"I guess this is where we part." Joly said. He smiled and put his hand out to shake Bossuet's, pressing a piece of paper into his palm and then walking away. It was his dorm room number and cell phone number. Bossuet smirked at his retreating back. Maybe his luck was turning a bit.


	3. The Bar On The Back Street

Nestled away in a side street, a little bar that seemed to lean ever-so-slightly to the right stood. 

The bar was usually quiet. 

Even at night it was never truly noisy. Most of the people that filled the seats were old, coming there because their parents had frequented it and their parents before them. The bar had become something of a tradition. Many people celebrated their birthdays there, celebrated a death, a birth, a new job. As of late, it had become a haven for students, eager to get away from things and relax with a good drink or good atmosphere. 

The young woman that worked there had inherited it from her parents. 

She was tall and full figured, her skin dark and her curly hair always a different color. It was no secret that this woman loved the bar, for reasons she couldn't even begin to explain. So many of her friends wondered why she was so passionate about the bar. It was old and from the outside a foreigner could easily mistake it for an abandoned building, if not for the lights inside or the constant steady flow of people through the door or the laughter that often came floating out of the ever-open windows. Her friends always asked her, “Musichetta, why do you even bother working here?”. And she's just smile as though she knew some special secret. 

“Because I like it.” She would eventually answer. No one was ever satisfied with that answer but the more they pressed, the more she would pull away, smiling that knowing smile. 

Musichetta loved the bar. 

~~~~

Today was absolutely dreary. 

The clouds constantly threatened rain with distant rumbles of thunder. The wind had picked up several hours ago and the streets were all but deserted. Musichetta’s bar was actually rather busy, full of people seeking to escape the melancholy that was the outside world. Inside her bar it was warm, warm in temperature and warm in spirit. 

Musichetta paused by the counter, surveying the tables. They were full, both with college students seeking a break from studies and with old veterans that visited every single day. Many of the frequent visitors, especially the old veterans, had known Musichetta since before she could remember. They'd known her parents, had visited her birthday parties- much to the disdain of the parents of Musichetta’s friends, seeing a little girl playing with adults. She knew all of them by name. Nothing gave her as much joy as greeting each and every one by name and watching their eyes light up at her recognition. Many of them came to Musichetta’s bar because they had no one else. She sighed, leaning her elbows on the counter absently. She had a few moments of rest so she let herself relax from her normal hustle-and-bustle lifestyle. Even though the bar wasn’t busy, Musichetta always found something to keep herself busy. It was one of the reasons that the bar was always spotlessly clean. Sometimes Musichetta wished that her neat-freak tendencies extended to her own home, where everything was more or less an explosion of controlled chaos. She let her mind wander a bit, going past her normal mindset of budgeting and micromanaging. She let her mind wander to when she was younger, much younger. 

“Chetta.” 

Musichetta jumped, blinked, and looked around. She'd completely drifted from reality, gazing off into space, not even noticing that her friend, a little brunette, was standing right in front of her and had snapped her fingers in front of Musichetta’s face. 

“Earth to Musichetta, mankind needs your alcohol.” Her friend called, snapping her fingers again. Musichetta pushed her friend's hand away.

“I'm here. I'm here. Fully grounded.” Musichetta grinned, already reaching for a beer. “And mankind doesn't need my alcohol. It's just you.”

“Whatever.” Her friend snatched the beer as though Musichetta would refuse to give it to her, tossing down some money to pay for it. “Seen anyone good-looking today?”

“Not yet.” Musichetta said, though her smile turned a little more sly than usual. 

“You're a horrible liar.” Her friend commented. 

“I'm not lying!” Musichetta insisted, looking dramatically hurt at her friend’s accusation. 

“Yeah, whatever.” Her friend grinned over her beer, leaning on the counter. “Next time, make sure you take a picture.” 

“Trust me, if I saw a good-looking one, I’d take a picture.” Musichetta laughed. It was a stupid little trick she had, she could take someone’s picture and they would never know. 

“That doesn’t sound stalkerish at all.” Her friend eyed a few people around the little bar. 

“What about that one?” Musichetta pointed out a young man with a thick mop of curly black hair, sitting alone in the corner. He was obviously either an art student or an artist of some kind, judging by the large sketchbook he was scribbling in and the smears of paint on the back of his neck that he probably hadn’t noticed when he’d gotten up for the day.

Musichetta thought it was kind of adorable but he wasn’t exactly her type. She liked the strong muscled types, the ones that could pick her up and swing her around. The artist in the corner seemed rather scrawny. Musichetta thought that maybe it was an artist thing, not eating every day because of...art? 

Her friend just shrugged. 

“Not really. Not my type.” She said.

“I thought you liked the artsy guys.” Musichetta said. A man came by the bar, asking for a drink. Musichetta bustled off to make it while her friend stayed leaning on the counter.

“Why can’t I just find a nice guy.” She sighed as Musichetta came back. 

“You’ve met plenty of nice guys and you scare them off.” Musichetta replied.

“It’s not my fault they underestimate me! It’s not like I asked to be five feet tall. You don’t know what it’s like down here, you’re a giant.” Her friend replied.

“I’m not a giant.” Musichetta said.

“Yeah, okay.” Her friend’s voice was sarcastic as hell and Musichetta couldn’t help but laugh. 

“You need to take a chance with someone else.” She offered. Her friend just scoffed in response. “Or you could wait for the right guy to just drop into your lap.”

“I’ll end up waiting forever.” Her friend sighed, looking out over the crowd.

“Eponine, you need to learn how to date a guy you don’t like.” Musichetta said almost dreamily.

“Why the hell would I date someone I don’t like?” Eponine stared at her as though she had three heads.

“Because the sex is good.” Musichetta replied. 

“For you, not for me.” Eponine finished her beer and tossed it in the garbage behind the bar. 

“Your loss.” Musichetta grinned. 

“Anyway,” Eponine said, very pointedly changing the subject. “What about you?”

Musichetta just shrugged in response.

“I’ve got plenty of guys throwing themselves at my feet, what more do I need?” She smiled.

“You do you.” Eponine shrugged. “I gotta go.”

“Go where?” Musichetta asked her, moving away to clean up the counter. “It’s about to storm.” 

“Yeah, and I’m gonna go mope by myself for a while. The weather is perfect for that.” Eponine replied.

“What’s wrong with moping here? With me?” Musichetta asked her.

“I don’t want to mope surrounded by happy people.” Eponine replied, grabbing her coat from where she’d hung it on the wall and pulling it on. “I’ll see you later.”

“See ya. I’ll stop by after I close.” Musichetta said, waving at her from across the room.

“Alright. See you then.” Eponine left, a blast of cold air entering the room when she opened the door. 

The rest of the night went by quickly. The artist in the corner stayed until after closing, leaving only when Musichetta shook his shoulder to pull him out of his revere. He looked very confused when she told him what time it was and all but ran out of the bar, almost forgetting one of his sketchbooks until Musichetta yelled after him to come back. He thanked her at least twenty times as he gathered up his things and ran out, leaving Musichetta alone in the bar. She shut off the OPEN sign and set to clean up, emptying the garbage and reorganizing the tables and chairs. As she took the trash out she paused at the bottom of a set of stairs leading up to an old wooden door.

Musichetta paused, looking up at the door. A chill ran through her, even though she’d made sure to keep the heat turned up.

Musichetta never went into the attic. She knew it was empty, water damage on the roof or something made it a bad place to store anything. As she stood there, her memory turning to when she was little. 

She'd gone up into the attic only once before, when she was little. She'd only been five or six and had wandered up there while playing. At that moment, Musichetta was that little girl. She could clearly remember climbing the stairs, the way they creaked, and the moment she reached the top and opened the door, fully intending to hide in there, when she had frozen where she stood and burst into hysterical tears, sobbing until her parents found her there. Her parents had to pick her up and carry her back downstairs because she was incoherent. Once they'd calmed her down she had asked her why she was crying and she'd had no answer. She had just shaken her head.

Musichetta blinked and found herself out of breath, her lungs and throat aching as though she’d just been crying. Her eyes burned and she scrubbed them, feeling frustrated. She left the stairs to finish with the trash, locked up the bar, and headed to Eponine’s.


	4. Maybe We Know Him

“That’s it! I’m quitting school and becoming a stripper.”

“Courf, that’s the third time you’ve said that today.”

“Maybe this time I mean it!”

“Or you’re just overreacting.”

“Me? Overreact? I would never overreact!”

“Remember the time you climbed the fountain and sat on top proclaiming yourself the God of bullshit after your professor called your paper ‘mediocre’?”

“Well when you put it like that…”

“It was exactly like that.”

Courfeyrac was sprawled on the grass, arms thrown over his eyes in a state of utter despair.

“I had a good reason!” He said, waving his arms.

“You proclaimed yourself the God of Bullshit.”

“I’m starting to feel like you’re trying to undermine me, ‘Ferre.” Courfeyrac propped himself up on his elbows.

“God of Bullshit.” Combeferre emphasized without even looking up from his nursing textbook. He sat next to him, barely acknowledging the tantrum Courfeyrac was throwing in the grass.

Courfeyrac flopped back, burying his fingers in his curly hair.

“I’m screwed man! Screwed!” Courfeyrac rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the grass. He paused for a moment then looked up at Combeferre. “You’re still hung on the ‘god of bullshit’ thing aren’t you.”

“Yes.” Combeferre turned a page in his book, looking at Courfeyrac over his glasses. “You climbed a fountain. A three tier fountain. That thing is at least twenty feet tall. And you just climbed it.”

“What else was I gonna do?” Courfeyrac replied.

“Not climb a fountain? Maybe do better on the next assignment?” Combeferre offered. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes with a shrug.

“Yeah, but I made front paper! And I got internet famous!” He protested.

“You almost got arrested and expelled.” Combeferre countered.

“Details, details, details.” Courfeyrac said, putting his head back down. A comfortable silence fell between the two.

“Hey…” Combeferre spoke and Courfeyrac sat up. His voice meant something. “Do you know him?”

He indicated a young man striding across the campus. He was thin and blonde.

“No. Wait….no? I don’t think so….” Courfeyrac stared at him, squinting as though it would help. There was something about him that was familiar.

The man turned and Courfeyrac could see peircing blue eyes even from where he was sitting.

“Oh shit I think he saw me.” Courfeyrac groaned, quickly ducking his head into his knees. “Is he still looking?”

Combeferre looked over his glasses.

“He looked pissed.” He commented, watching carefully. “Okay, he looked away.”

“That was weird.” Courfeyrac said, looking at him again but being a little more subtle. “I swear I've seen him before.”

“I don’t know. He seems familiar…” Before either of them could continue they were interrupted by a person flopping down in the grass beside them.

“Hey, Joly- damn you look like shit.” Courfeyrac said, laying back in the grass. The other took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Yeah, I was up late at the library.” He mumbled, yawning.

“Why were you there so late?” Courfeyrac asked him.

“Studying.” Joly said.

“As usual.” Courfeyrac grinned up at him.

“I gave a guy my number, too.” Joly continued, pulling out one of his textbooks. Combeferre almost dropped his own book and Courfeyrac sat up.

“You what?” Courfeyrac asked, excitedly. “Who? What’s he like? Is he cute?” Combeferre rolled his eyes.

“He’s...clumsy.” Joly said after a few moments of thought. Courfeyrac looked completely disappointed.

“Clumsy? That’s it? Of all things you could say about this guy and you say he’s ‘clumsy’?!” Courfeyrac looked almost distraught. “Joly, you’re killing me!”

“Well, I didn’t really talk to him that much.” Joly admitted, his face turning red. Courfeyrac stared at him.

“You gave him your NUMBER.” Courfeyrac burst out, looking like he was about to start shaking Joly. “And you don't know anything about him?!”

“N-No...not really...I mean, I just kinda did. It was late and we left at the same time.” Joly said, his face turning slightly red and running his fingers through his wavy brown hair. He always blushed easily.

“Let me get this straight, you met this guy in the library and gave him your number in under five minutes?” Courfeyrac was staring at Joly, who kept shooting glances between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, unsure who to look at.

“Yes…” Joly said, twisting his fingers together. “I mean, you say it like it's weird…”

“It is weird!” Courfeyrac ripped up a handful of grass and threw it at him.

“It just felt like something I should do.” Joly admitted, attempting to become invested in his book and ignore the grass raining down on him from Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac paused, looking at Combeferre. They both knew that Joly wasn't the impulsive type. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, seemed to give his number out to anyone and everyone. But Joly? Joly hardly seemed to speak to anyone. Sure, he knew everyone on campus. But that was because he was an absolute sweetheart. For him to give his number to someone he just met was completely out of character.

“You feeling okay? ‘Ferre, check if he has a fever or something.” Courfeyrac reached out to press his hand to Joly’s forehead.

“I don't have a fever, Courf.” Joly said, dodging Courfeyrac’s hands. “I checked an hour ago.”

“Of course you did.” Courfeyrac replied, still gazing at Joly as though he could use some form of telepathy to understand what was going on in his head. “Classic Joly, always keeping up with his health.”

“Did you take your meds?” Combeferre asked, engrossed in his book again. Courfeyrac stopped trying to feel Joly’s forehead, falling silent.

“Yes.” Joly replied quietly, flipping a few pages of his book.

“Good.” Combeferre looked up at him, a soft smile on his lips.

“Hey!!” A voice called from across the field. A figure was jogging over to them. “I got out of class early and my lab’s been cancelled.”

They were stockier, muscled, with long dreads held back by a rubber band.

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac leapt up, sprinting to throw himself onto the other, who caught him easily and swung him around. “Did you hear? Joly give his number to a guy!”

“Just tell everyone about it, why don't you.” Combeferre commented while Joly blushed.

“He better be cute.” Jehan said, carrying Courfeyrac back and setting him down on the ground. “What's his name?”

“Uh….Bossuet.” Joly said, fidgeting.

“Bossuet? That sounds familiar. I think I have a guy named Bossuet in my trig class.” Jehan sat down, dropping their bag beside them. Courfeyrac scooted over and pulled the ponytail from their hair, immediately beginning to French braid the dreads. “Is he tall? Really dark?”

“Yeah, that sounds like him.” Joly said. A dreamy glaze overtook his eyes and he gazed off into the distant. Courfeyrac paused with his braiding to reach over and poke Joly.

“I think he's off the deep end.” Courfeyrac commented when Joly hardly reacted. Jehan shrugged.

“Or he's in love.” Jehan suggested.

“Whatever.” Courfeyrac gave a soft tug on Jehan’s dreads.

“I gotta get to class. I'll see you later.” Combeferre stood up, gathering his books and his backpack.

“Don't leave us with Courf!” Jehan cried, dramatically reaching out to Combeferre.

“Hey!!” Courfeyrac snapped, pulling on Jehan’s hair again. “That's not very nice!”

“You're in your own.” Combeferre said with an air of disinterest, though he started laughing as he walked away.

“Noooooooo…” Jehan flailed around, flopping backward into Courfeyrac.

“Dammit! I lost my place!” Courfeyrac yelled, trying to shove Jehan off. “Jeeehhhaaaannn!!”

Joly scooted a few feet away to avoid the flailing limbs as Courfeyrac tried and failed to get Jehan off.


End file.
